A Lion's Pride
by inexchangeforyoursoul
Summary: And how it's lost. A writeup of how Ornstein may have experienced the stuff that happened roughly around the Artorias of the Abyss DLC timeframe. I started this, like, back in 2k13 and published it a few months ago on tumblr when I got tired of looking at it; the few reblogs seemed to like it a lot despite the rushed ending, so there's hoping that readers here will enjoy it, too.


He's gone.

Something feels amiss, but you cannot quite put your finger on it. May be your intuition acting up due to the mission he went out on- knowing him, though, he'll likely make friends with the queer folk and drag some monstrosity up here, introducing it as his new pet or friend. This thought makes you crack a tired smile, but it soon fades as the uneasiness lingers with the spreading shadows on the cathedral walls up above. The source of the unsettling sensation could also be that you did not bid him farewell in the morning, being preoccupied with her Highness... or the fact that your last words to him the day before may very well be the harshest that have ever left your mouth.

 _"_ _Jump off a cliff,"_ you said.

No matter how you look at it, this is the weight dragging your spirits down. Truth to be told, as someone who knows their short temper, he would never hold something like this against any of his companions. You do quarrel quite a bit with each other in the first place; more than with anyone else, the both of you, being as different as water and fire tend to be… but you also never parted with any bad blood in between, and it's eating away at you.  
Being clear about all kinds of things is how you like it and he, too, knows this very well. Tolerating each other's ups and downs and all other oddities is, after all, what being best friends has always been about. At least you never knew any better. Nor do you want to, really- as far as you are concerned, he is a Knight of Knights, and even if you catch the wind of his wild temper from time to time, this friendship is one of the highest honors you could ever hope to be rewarded with. And now… you are bound to wait with the apology till he returneth.  
Taking a deep breath, you look out one magnificent window- the blood-shot eye of a crimson sky glares you down with anger. Dark soon engulfs the towers of gold.

* * *

Days pass.

Ciaran comes and goes, being the only one left to make the rounds between the keep and Gough. The other frequent visitor is out in the tainted city, looking for the source of the poison, after all, while you are tasked with guarding the Princess- excuse, the Queen, and haven't seen your mighty mass of a friend in what feels like an eternity. Which is odd, considering all the time spent alive ever since you've become (more or less) immortal.  
The facts remind you of that day not too distant- when the four of you, so to say, separated. And the week after, when your Lord left along with his entourage. Then a few months later, Gough bid you farewell and left to have his cell built around him. Some of the stubborn leaves that sprouted then still cling onto their trees, despite showing their pale veins.  
At times, when you wake up after resting for once, you almost expect to hear those who left calling for you… but they are gone and not coming back. You vividly remember the last glimpse of those people, but more than most, the visage of the man you looked up to and adored like a God amongst gods... A sore subject, this is, it forever will be. Honoring his last request is the least you can do, but your heart still mourns whenever you happen to look upon Her. And by the heavens, howvile and perverse of a sensation it is when you kneel before the most radiant being near and far… and that's when Sunlight shines dim and broken, through thick walls of stained glass.  
Cannot help but notice in those moments that she seems oddly at peace. Despite her father now basically being dead, never being able to see her brother or daughter ever again, and the last of her blood isolating themselves from the people while getting buried in… "work"- whatever master Gwyndolin has been doing while also becoming remarkably secretive in the past few months-, and she's just… fine. Calm is but an understatement when trying to define the aura surrounding the former Princess. Her attitude is making you feel more and more uncomfortable by the day. You prefer to stay a few steps further away from her chamber than you'd like.

* * *

The week goes by.

Something fortunate has happened to loosen the knot of grief and guilt in your stomach at least: the key that leads to Gough's tower and which would be normally under a loose cobble, has disappeared, it seems. The culprit must have been a little critter, anyone else would have likely tried it on the nearby door. The Blade and you agree that things are better this way; no easy entrance keeps those who bear ill will outside, and all of you are skilled enough to reach him regardless if the time calls for it. Like Artorias does, being a notch (or two) too tall for the doorframe. He also paid a visit down there, apparently; between scouting the outskirts and daring the heart of the Abyss, he left a brief and fairly straightforward message the other day:

"If he dwells on it too much, just punch him right in the face for me."

Hearing this from Ciaran earned a light chuckle from your part while she was most likely flashing a rare smile beneath her porcelain mask- and also lifted a chunk of weight from your heart. The bastard knows you all too well. You'll be damned if he thinks he can get away with this so easily, though- you'll have to figure some kind of prank, and then say you're sorry. For two things, at that point.  
He should come around soon, you think to yourself. At any given moment, really. Until then, you will have to endure.

* * *

Another week, over.

You are anxious, terribly so. Staying out for this long is very much unlike him; even when he felt like spending time with the creatures in the woods, he would return after a few days, be it just a quick visit or not. He ventured out for such a short distance, too... since the life of the lone princess might be endangered and the highly potent spread of the Abyss had become an apparent problem that could not be dismissed by simply declaring the town forbidden grounds, time was essential. To someone like Artorias, who only ever truly fought to protect, this held even more importance- as improbable as it is, he might have found not to have the means to handle the latter issue, but he certainly would not hesitate to do whatever it takes to know the maiden was safe as soon as possible, either. Especially considering her recent absence where she went missing for over a year. According to what Ciaran heard –oh, how she, too, has not shown up for days!- from lady Elizabeth, she remembers it as if it was but a long nap spent half asleep, trapped in a crystalline being… and awakening in an era way past yours before returning home.  
The fabric of time has truly begun to fold in surprising ways, you guess; this was the most extreme example you've heard this far. Knowing that the creature was an experiment of Seath's running out in the wild, though… it is unnerving, to say the least. There's too much to think about and this whole situation is making you nauseous- sometimes you delve into your worries so much that you don't even notice when someone talks to you. Maybe getting some shuteye would help lessen the pressure. You have no better idea, nor a better option, anyway.

About two hours of rest is what you can manage- the Sun is still high up above and you are drowsy. In these less busy hours you could swear to hear a wolf barking in the distance; the city has become so silent that paired with the strained nerves you have begun hallucinating things in the hallowed halls. Silence also means emptiness these days. Groups are formed, planning to leave, one after the other. Everyone is busy at home preparing for voyages of various destinations- when you'll have to depart is just a question of time and royal whims. Thinking about eventually leaving this land and the others to accompany the Princess with Smough and some others that you barely know has always made you feel dizzy, and remembering it right now… you really need the additional support from the wall.  
Once again, as it has been happening a lot in the past decades, you catch yourself missing the thrill of a dance with death. No wonder as far as you are concerned- killing is an activity that is severing links. There's no courtesy, no feelings, no words involved- you have one goal and your sole purpose is to swiftly stop its beating. It's always been some kind of twisted medicine that helped you calm down and concentrate again. Like books, as of late, but you have long read everything in the Archives that tickled your fancy way before it was shut off- which was not a whole lot, considering the interests of their main collector. It is so much easier than getting by day by day in a society and dealing with all them people or to, just… live. Your spirit and mind have always been frail. With the source of your pride, purpose and inspiration being no more… it has been as plain and as broad as day.  
This has always been why he wasn't all too keen on you- this is also the reason why you've always been so hard on yourself. Never will you be the person he would have liked a Captain to be, provided there was a need for one in the first place. You lack the inspiring nature and strength of Artorias, lack the cold tactical genius of Ciaran and lack Gough's sharp eyes that detect enemies long before they pose any threat. You've always lacked a lot, especially as far as social skills and drive were concerned. A common killing machine that passed the test of mediocrity, that's what you are. If it weren't for your uncanny precision and strong faith in your Lord, you'd have never been one of them, you'd just…  
Oh. You're doing it again, the self-loathing. Time to rest for real today, it seems- you can merely hope that these thoughts dissipate along with the shadows in the morning.

* * *

A new day, a new dream, perhaps.

You need someone to talk to, but you would not dare to bother royalty with your woes, especially as they are right now. Smough is no good at keeping company, either. You really miss the long talks you had with Gough, he always knew what to say. You still have Artorias and Ciaran, but none of them are around, hell, they are the ones who make you walk circles around the great hall in the first place.  
One is too crude about these things and the other always seems so distant, anyway. She still listens, though- watching her process and understand all the nonsense you say always helps a lot, even if she does not find the proper words, nor can step out of her comfort zone to share them if she does. What you wouldn't give for one of Alvina's riddles or getting tackled by Sif, even… It gets so lonely.  
You catch yourself trembling again. Just a little. The breaking dawn seems paler than usual.

* * *

Hours tick away. Dusk falls silver and takes off on rosy wings again- the bells welcome noon as the Sun's rays besiege the cool building with uncommon ire.

Someone has come to talk to you specifically. Outlandish, it is. You are not exactly up for a chat with anyone else than your friends at the moment, but you also can't help but wonder what this might be about.  
A messenger has come who leads you to the side and quickly states their business. His face is tense and hints at being uncomfortable, yours is blank and filled with disbelief. You just cannot quite process the words as they reach you. He leaves. You stand in the hallway, petrified for hours- the scene repeats over and over in your head as you try to make sense of it. The rest of the day passes as if it never happened to you; later you'll wonder if this numb emptiness is what being Hollow feels like. Night breaks. Something cracks. A single thought echoes. _He's not coming back._

* * *

Dawn again.

His left rendered useless, his shield left with Sif in the Abyss, the other arm cramping over the once glistering blade, corruption digging its roots deeper by the day into his flesh and mind- or whatever is left of it, as you could make out. That's what Ciaran told you, wrestling with the words. Turns out she was just as worried as you and went out to look for them just to finally meet him alone in that pitiful state three days back. He's asked her to maintain her distance and begged that none of you would try and enter the twisted ruins of Oolacile, not even for Sif's sake. There was also "an outrageous request" she mentioned…. you understood just fine. Both what he was asking and why she would, or rather, could not go through with it.  
Then there was just a long, awkward silence before she excused herself and walked away.  
She's already been to Gough- he's been, after all, a good friend of Artorias, from way before you even met them. Cannot even imagine how he is handling this. You always saw him as an unshakable pillar of peace, even in the most dangerous or humiliating of situations. Deep within, though, you felt a storm raging- and still, it never showed. You have always admired him for this deeply. If it weren't for this calming air around him, you would have gotten in much more trouble, that's for sure. Maybe that's why Artorias… _is_ so good at keeping the vaguely threatening but still civil face, despite being on a short fuse- they've spent tremendous time with each other. Never got too good at this yourself, unfortunately. Not that you were easy to provoke, quite the contrary (being able to describe this trait as "lenient" instead of "meek" is its only saving grace), but when you heard people speaking ill of anyone who has earned your admiration, more often than not Gough… you cannot count the times that they had to step in as you were about to gut someone. You very well may be thinking too much into this considering both your image of Gough and that all of you have been perfectly aware of the possibility of someone not returning from a mission one day, but… you are worried for him anyway. You could probably come up with something decent to send as a message, but…  
You wish you could say something to lighten Ciaran's mood a little first, however, there are no such things to say and you'd rather not burden her further, either. She's worse for the wear than any time you've seen her before, and you've seen her after being through a lot, more than once. Even paler than your natural taint, she is- just like those ghosts you've seen once in an empty scorched city. One cannot even make out the scars she earned in battle long ago, even through the myriad of freckles that they cross.  
You aren't doing any better in terms of looks, with grey and glaring red bleeding into each other around the eyes. Sometimes you do stay up for a way longer period than it's healthy, so the first one is a thing you tend to deal with. It's also true that your eyes get watery more often than it would be dignified, but you cannot remember the last time you shed so many tears. You've always been glad to have a helmet that hides the face for this very reason, especially now with the permanent dew being present. There are way too many people glaring at you all the time, anyway; the helmet is truly a blessing under which you can curse yourself in silence till damnation day.  
It was _you_ who asked him to go there, after all. This is all your fault, and there's nothing you can do. Nothing you could help with. Nothing you could say. Not to her, who was standing in front of you; not to him, writhing outside in pain. Not to the person who will miss him the most, either. Not to anyone.  
You can't even go out and apologize for that irrelevant little thing from weeks ago, you… _you'll never even see him again_.  
Quite possibly… not even in death.  
You wish you went there instead. To be the one sentenced to die.

* * *

If anybody ever asked your opinion on her appearance, you would have answered something along the lines of endearing. Elegant. Even practical, due to the nature of her profession as a Blade. But all you saw today was something… fragile. And the notion pains you like a million daggers, cutting you up from the inside.  
Just knowing why she is here, standing as she is in front of you, never uttering a word, not taking off her mask at all… is the last one to pierce, running right through the heart.  
You get down on your knees and embrace her tightly. This one time… as long as no one is seeing, as long as no one is looking… you will allow yourself to be weak. To swallow your tears without cover. To be fragile. To be what you are. You kind of wish you did not have any of the armor on, so you could feel her warmth.

"Ornstein," she utters in a fading tone after a while, dangerously close to crack at one point, "I can't breathe."

Just then you realize that meanwhile you are holding onto her as if clinging for dear life. You quickly lift your death grip and apologize, settling on your heels. She says it's fine and returns the preceding hug. You can hear her heartbeat as your ear presses to her neck; it's accompanied by a soft clinking noise from near her chest. Must be two pieces of metal- it sounds like shards of glass.  
You ask about Gough. After careful consideration, she tells how he takes a deep breath and stops humming his favourite tune when catching himself doing it. You acknowledge this by saying you see. The butterfly-embrace starts working its sedative magic and you put your arms back around her while spacing out for a while.  
Some part of you wishes there were more moments like this in your life. Out of the blue, memories of hugs that you had rejected swarm your mind. Why did you do that? Why were you embarrassed of showing affection? And why are you okay with it now? Is it because you are so tired…? Because Ciaran is different and shies away from such actions just as often? Would it have been awkward clinging to someone as huge as Gough…? Artorias surely would have tried to sneak in kisses every now and then, either to irritate you or out of genuine interest (if not both), but regardless of purpose… it still would have done more good than bad, right? After all, you know him. Many felt heartbroken as he had so much love for so many people to spare, but he never hurts anyone he likes intentionally. If someone wouldn't mind, it was you, who wasn't interested in love affairs in the first place. You would have just understood. Because he is… he _was,_ just… Artorias.  
The lump in your throat returns. A question arises, forcing other thoughts out the way- and you do want to know… how did it happen, in the end?  
The answer is certainly not what you expected. But it's good. This is good. You flash back to when Ciaran told you about the thing he asked her- you wonder… if you would have been able to do it. You have killed so many people, so many creatures before. Would there have been a difference? You'll never know. You never want to know.  
She's about to leave so she can pray at the makeshift memorial she raised quick, to possibly visit Gough again as he's really close to where Artorias was put out of his misery… and to prepare for a proper goodbye. You ask her to just tell if there's anything you could help with from here.

* * *

The torturous, leisurely paced month finally passes when you face one of your long lingering fears.

Giving up a part of your soul, however big… is just whatever. A bit of the portion that you treasure so much will stay- what has become one can never truly be separated again, after all. Knowing this eases the pain of parting with your ring a little, but it still takes a great toll on you. That piece of jewelry may be something you also got from His Majesty, but even more than that… it would remind you of _them_ once you leave this place in exactly two months.

They take the ring in ten days' time, shortly before the "new" Dragonslayer is ready. You didn't think you would feel that lost without being able to cling to it anymore. You catch yourself soon fidgeting with your finger and wondering if maybe you should find some sort of substitute. How laughable and pointless that would be- that weakly enchanted nugget of gold, however common an aid, however easily replicated, would never be the same, even if it looked just like the one that was yours, with all the little scratches and bumps intact. It might just be you overthinking it, but you feel that the new object would lack… something essential. Whatever it may be.

* * *

The last day of the week came with… the other thing you've been told about. The eyes of the mirror image meet with yours, and a shiver runs down your spine. You are truly… a machine meant for nothing more than senseless slaughter. The moment leaves you robbed from sleep for a week. Just knowing that this _thing_ is nearby drives you slowly crazy. The fact that the fake Queen Gwynevere's features bear a striking semblance to her constantly calm, smiling expression doesn't help in the slightest. As the days pass, you are almost happy to leave all of this soon behind.

* * *

She hasn't visited in so long. You let the gap after the initial few appearances in the first month be, as she needed some space and time for sure, but you have reached the end of your rope.

You want to see her. You want to see Gough. You want to visit _him_ , too. And pet Sif, he's been spotted by so many, it cannot be a rumor. And talk to Alvina. You'd sell half of the remaining bit of your soul for any of these. Leaving the side of Her Highness, however, would be unimaginable, on par with treason, even. Your heart grows heavier with each passing hour of each passing day. Cannot bear this for much longer.

* * *

The day of departure arrives tomorrow.

Taking a deep breath of the star-scented cool night air, you step on the railing- what you are about to do is unheard of, but you cannot be bothered anymore. The only thing on your mind is that you want to meet them one more time- that, and all the things that they have taught you so you even dare to commit something this foolish.

" _There's… no way you wouldn't be noticed,_ " a panting, smooth alto rings in your ears, accompanied by an image of a faint smile sitting across you on a glade one sunlit morning, as you land on the first rooftop with utmost care. Back then… you asked Ciaran about being able to do the sneaky assassin thing after an increasingly acrobatic sparring session escalated into a game of tag; " _you are way too big of a target._ " She states smugly and pauses to catch her breath. " _Even if you are stupid fast, that's still a problem. However,"_ she continued, _"precisely because of that advantage… I think you could actually pull it off once night falls. If you get rid of all the heavy and noisy things, that is._ "  
You hop off again as the echoes of the last word fade; feeling the wind whistle by with only your own weight and the friction of the slightly loose cloak getting in the way is certainly a liberating sensation. Two more jumps later, all you have to do is flash towards the city entrance which is packed with heaps of stones nowadays that will be used to wall the settlement off soon. You are about halfway through when you halt in an instant and your heart starts hammering in your ribcage with even more vigor than before.

" _Hmm… is hard to explain, if I wanted to be honest._ " Gough's voice thundered above you while testing the tip of a new arrow with a finger, followed by the first rumbles of the dark, heavy sky above. Sif gave a soft whimper at the bottom of the staircase and scooted closer to Artorias, who told her off for being silly and comforted the young cub by scratching its head. " _After all, you can also tell when being followed by a curious pair of eyes. The only difference, other than sensing things further away, is that I can tell intent and intent apart; even one bird from another, remaining unseen on the same bough. You get by just fine without this kind of perception, though. Just stay alert and hone this skill, if you will- an enemy reveals themselves in due time. Hmm… I do wonder, now that you asked,_ " he continued, reaching for a new stick to sharpen, " _if it has anything to do with race."_  
You remember tilting your head in confusion upon hearing that. All you knew at that point is that he was a little stout, compared to the average; there was nothing odd about his complexion, either. Only shortly thereafter did you learn about him being a giant. It explained quite a few unpleasant encounters you've witnessed, before and way after. As of now, though…  
You barely dare to draw breath upon the patrolling guards passing; you feel so huge compared to the bushes you can use for cover. Having soft soil under your feet in that tight spot instead of cobblestone is much more reassuring, at least- you make so little noise that you even surprise yourself.

" _Trust me, if it's in here, you would have a harder time hunting me down than you would Ciaran- it wouldn't even have to be dark, pal._ " Artorias boasted once when you crossed the woods on the way to the others while Sif ran around, sniffling quite possibly every tree and bush that there was- you understood what he meant, knowing how familiar he was with the terrain, but this time you experience the advantages of foliage and earth firsthand. Still praying for no branches finding their way to the places you step on, though. The thought stops you in your tracks and you look around. " _I wouldn't even leave a trace for you to go on. See, that's literally the dumbest thing you can do when being followed by something other than an animal with a good sense of smell..._ " You were already rolling your eyes at that point, but he would just go on, and on, and on. It was one of those days where he just wouldn't shut up. A faded smile is on your lips as you even the ground with the stick overrun by ivy- if you'll have a moment alone to talk at the monument, you'll tell him how you used a technique he told you about. You look at the pitiful object for a moment as you finish- this one also comes with you.

Now that you left Anor Londo behind, navigated down your way on the Fortress' outer walls while noting that doing the same upwards will cost you much precious time, and have arrived in the forest… you are just running as fast as you can on the wet, bumpy terrain while flocks of clouds hide the moonlight ever-so-often. No idea what you will be doing, nor where you are heading exactly. All you know for certain is that the grave, and most likely Ciaran, are past the far bridge, near the sanctuary- and that you must be court so you can also reach Gough and return to your room before dawn. And here's the first bridge already- at least you now surely know that the memories are still true and you won't get lost.

"So… thou hast come. I expected as much." A muddy voice calls out right as you reach the structure and stop "But, it is for naught." Your heart is torn between soaring high upon hearing the cat talk, but the tone… it's so eerie, you cannot help but let it sink back at the notion. You turn around. There is not much you can make out, but a cat's gaze under the momentarily clear moonlit sky is hard to miss. Cannot help but see nothing other than deep sorrow in them. "Do not go yonder knocking for nothing, cub. That is all I shall say," you hear as the two dots flicker and die out. She turns her head away, avoiding your eyes- you notice something in the shadows near her that's most likely Sif, lying at the base of a tree. If you did not know better, you'd think she was dead.  
You just stare at them, probably for minutes. Her words sink in and yours escape you. As your breathing gets steady, the silence gets deafening, and suddenly… it's so cold.  
One of her ears twitch then, and she goes poof. Just like she always does when she's about to play a prank, is fed up with your posse doing especially dumb things… or when she's uncomfortable. You think you can hear a tiny whimper from beneath the tree as the furry log curls up into a ball.

Mind being blank all along, you are not certain what makes you take the first step towards the bridge afterwards- nor how you reach and then also cross the second one, facing the entrance of your primary destination. The freezing night has melted your previous eagerness completely away. As the static is clearing from your consciousness, discomfort and a sense of desertedness comes over you. What just happened… it was not planned like this, at all. You wanted to say goodbye, to hold them, to… do anything. But you were late with words and then just walked away.  
And then there was the message, which held a promise of nothing at the end of the road. Thinking about this again, your arms and legs and chest are covered in invisible ice again. Somehow it feels familiar… is this the brother of the sensation that made your limbs and heart burn with Hell's promise on the battlefield… the other face of Fear?  
Looking down the path ahead of you and taking a shaky step forward… then pausing for a few seconds, you must digress. This feeling is that of the cruel stepmother you've never had the pleasure to meet until this day… Terror.

How odd. The sight of a sword to be so reassuring that it dispels all of the frigid shackles. The lack of any apparent company in these times… to be so soothing. You step closer to take a better look at the blade, ignoring the heavy air around the tomb - indeed, it has seen better days… the corruption ate at it like vicious acids and rust would, now it looks like an ancient relic, ready to fall apart. But still, the way light still flickers on a rare spot… the steel that your fingers are tracing lightly down on… this is the sword you know.  
Your eyes wander over to the gigantic gravestone. You feel that it's almost too much, being even taller than he ever was… just like he'd want it, if not more pompous.

You say a brief "hey" then take an awkward pause, forcing the thoughts of this being a pointless monologue aside. Adding a line about how long it's been. Your breathing gets funny for a moment, so you wait a little before continuing.  
A few apologies burst out of you - for not coming sooner; for being an arse, and yes, you did receive the message but did not know what he'd expected anyway; for planning to put a bucket full of water over his door … and also being sorry for the disgraceful way you left your duties for this, breaking at least a dozen of rules or laws in the process.  
You take an amused quick breath at the last notion- never really cared for those, did he? This reminds you of the piece of wood you brought along which you then pull out of your belt, and thank him for helping out with the last one.  
Which is, quite frankly… the last prank you'll pull together, isn't it?  
You swallow hard and try to focus on finding a suitable, preferably unseen cranny to jam the stick into. While thinking about the fact that the ivy is probably going to grow all over the place soon, you spot something shiny around the corner of the stone.  
It's shoes.  
With long, pointy noses.

Ciaran?

You step forward, holding your breath. It is her, indeed. She's a light sleeper who's disturbed by the lightest of noises, though- how on earth did you not wake her with the previous tomfoolery?  
You remember a pair of flickering, sorrowful eyes, then a cloud of smoke… and the air freezes around you once more. You get closer and kneel down.

With trembling hands, you reach for the mask. It does not resist and gives into the force immediately, so you can catch a quick glimpse of what will haunt you for a lifetime to come: the _thing_ that was once upon a time the face of a person as dear to you as your own flesh and blood. In an instant, one hand jerks away and another covers your face upon the unbearable stench being released from the rotting corpse. You are about to throw up but try to hold it back and crawl to the other side of the grave while fighting the nausea, gasping for some fresh air as soon as you can.  
The disgust slowly fades, but your breath just won't stop being short and soon tears start burning their way out into the open. Leaning with forehead against the cold stone as processing what just happened, you are giving free way to the saline river bit by bit. A whimper escapes your throat, followed by a dwelling tide of many more you want to release. The fingers of the arm you are leaning on dig deep into the soft earth. You… you really want to scream as loud as humanly possible, but cannot allow yourself to do that. The hold of the hand over your mouth reaches spastic levels, and you feel that if you were to move a single muscle, you'd fall apart immediately.

Quite possibly an hour passes; the only thing you could tell was that the moon already passed its zenith once you dared to drop down and sit with your back against the cold rock, knees pulled up high. It crosses your mind that you have to get back to the keep in about five hours time, out of which at least three will be needed to climb all those buildings that you've descended on. Then you stare into the sanctuary for a while, taking sharp breaths at times- then you remember it again. Then you weep a little. And the thought appears anew. But you just can't muster the strength to stand up. You can't bring yourself to go… home.  
That word. It seems to hold no meaning anymore. The last person whom you could call a friend -if you dared to address Gwyndolyn as such- up in Anor Londo… is going to be left behind in a matter of hours. It's also entirely possible that you'll never return here. Everything feels so… meaningless. Empty. For the first time since heaven knows when, you feel entirely lost.

The wind is starting to catch up and the rustling of the trees breaks the silence; the noise reminds you of a melody that you've heard many times before, whenever things looked grim- and the voice that goes with it. With the burst of emotions the thought of Gough brings, you get up at last.  
For a moment, you stop by at the unceremoniously lying corpse again. You kneel down once more, and gently stroke the line along her hair- or rather wig, you suppose. She never grew it out that long ever again. You always thought it was a pity. It's covered in dew… and so soft.  
Standing up and then regaining some of your composure, you manage to squeeze out a goodbye.  
There's a lot of things left to say, a lot you really want to tell- but you are afraid that it would come out as incomprehensible slur. And quite frankly… you are a little too late with all of that in the first place. No time to waste, either- there's still places left to go tonight.

You flounder towards the empty coliseum with weary steps and irritating light-headedness. Soon the air becomes heavy with iron, and the stench is getting stronger by the minute. It's the smell of a slaughterhouse at the end of a day- or of actual manslaughter. There is no difference from a distance. And especially not from up close.  
Icy fingers dance up and down your spine. A voice in the back of your head states that it would be wiser to turn around as you take on the stairs. If only you weren't so tired so you could listen.

 _Splat._

You look down to the silky, dark river you are standing in. Its spring lies with the door that stands wide open. A cloud sloppily moves out of the way so the Moon can reveal the silver key in its lock and what lies beneath. You raise your head and listen. To arrows being sharpened, to deep hums that sometimes resemble songs you know, to wood being carved, to chains jingling, to the occasional sigh he gives when thinking about this and that, to anything. But the air feels like lead in your lungs and the world is deafeningly still- and you are shaking.

Because Artorias sleeps in the embrace of the early Sun.  
Ciaran sleeps late with the stars.  
You sleep whenever.

But Gough… Ghough never sleeps.

The knees give in and the early birds wake too soon.

A lion was howling at the moon.


End file.
